The Unlucky Lottery

‘Of course he can,’ said Klempje, picking his nose. ‘What a lot of bloody crap!’

When they got back to the police station, Jung and Rooth went down to the prison cells for a chat with Inspector Fuller: it emerged more clearly than was desirable that Marie-Louise Leverkuhn had made no effort at all to keep a diary during the six weeks she had spent in cell number 12. Either in notebooks with black oilcloth covers or anywhere else. Fuller could stake his bloody reputation on that, he claimed.

For safety’s sake they checked with all the warders and the drowsy chaplain, and everybody agreed. Even if no more reputations were staked.

There were no diaries. It was as simple as that.

‘Okay,’ said Rooth. ‘Now we know. It seems that everybody draws a blank in this bloody lottery.’

Shortly before Münster went home for the day he had a phone call from Reinhart.

‘Have you a quarter of an hour to spare?’

‘Yes, but not much more,’ said Münster. ‘Are you coming to my office?’

‘Come to mine instead,’ said Reinhart. ‘Then I can smoke in peace and quiet. There are a few things I’m wondering about.’

‘I’ll be with you in two minutes,’ said Münster.

Reinhart was standing by the window, watching the sleet fall, when Münster arrived.

‘I seem to recall that the chief inspector thought January was the worst month of the year,’ he said. ‘I must say I agree with him. It’s only the sixth today, but it feels as if we’ve been at it for an eternity.’

‘It can’t have anything to do with the fact that you’ve only just started work again, can it?’ Münster wondered.

‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said Reinhart, lighting his pipe. ‘Anyway, I had just a few little theoretical questions.’

‘Good,’ said Münster. ‘I’m fed up with being practical all the time.’

Reinhart sat down behind his desk, turned his chair and put his feet up on the third shelf of the bookcase, where there was a space left for precisely this purpose.

‘Do you think she’s innocent?’ he asked.

Münster watched the wet snow falling for five seconds before replying.

‘Possibly,’ he said.

‘Why should she confess if she didn’t do it?’

‘There are various possibilities.’

‘Such as?’

Münster thought.

‘Well, one at any rate.’

‘One possibility?’ said Reinhart. ‘That’s what I call a multiplicity.’

‘Who cares?’ said Münster. ‘Perhaps it’s simplisticity, but it could be that she was protecting somebody . . . Or that she thought she was. But that’s just speculation, of course.’

‘Who might she have been protecting?’

The telephone rang, but Reinhart pressed a button and switched it off.

‘That’s obvious,’ said Münster, with irritation in his voice. ‘I’ve been wondering about that from the very start, but there’s no evidence to support it. None at all.’

Reinhart nodded and chewed at the stem of his pipe.

‘Then there’s fru Van Eck,’ Münster said. ‘And this damned Bonger. That complicates matters somewhat, don’t you think?’

‘Of course,’ said Reinhart. ‘Of course. I tried to talk to the poor widower at Majorna today. But there’s not much of a spark left in him, it seems . . . Ah well, what are you going to do now? In the way of positive action, I mean.’

Münster leaned back on his chair.

‘Follow up that simplistic thought,’ he said after consulting himself for a few seconds. ‘See if it holds water, at least. I need to get about a bit and chase things up. Only one of the siblings attended the funeral, so we didn’t get very far then. And it wasn’t exactly fun either, interrogating the mourners as soon as they left the church.’

‘No, it wouldn’t be,’ said Reinhart. ‘When are you setting off?’

‘Tomorrow,’ said Münster. ‘They live quite a long way up north, so it might well be a two-day job.’

Reinhart thought for a while. Then he removed his feet from the book shelf and put down his pipe.

‘It certainly is a bloody strange business, don’t you think?’ he said. ‘And unpleasant.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ said Münster. ‘I suppose they could be coincidences. It’s over two months now since it all started, but it’s only now that I’m beginning to sniff the possibility of a motive.’

‘Hmm,’ said Reinhart. ‘Does it include Else Van Eck?’

‘I’m not really sure. It’s only a very faint whiff at the moment.’

Reinhart’s face suddenly lit up.

‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ he said. ‘You’re beginning to sound like the chief inspector. Are you starting to get old?’

‘Ancient,’ said Münster. ‘My kids will start thinking I’m their grandad if I don’t get a week off soon.’

‘Time off, oh yes . . .’ said Reinhart with a sigh, and his eyes began to look dreamy. ‘No, sod this for a lark, it’s time to go home. I’ll see you in a few days’ time, then. Keep us informed.’

‘Of course,’ said Münster, opening the door for Intendent Reinhart.

34

He allowed himself an extra hour the next morning. Made the beds, did the washing up, took Marieke to nursery school and left Maardam by ten o’clock. Driving rain came lashing in from the sea, and he was relieved to be sitting in a car with a roof over his head.